


Pull Over

by jjtaylor



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Watersports, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-08
Updated: 2010-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-10 00:20:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjtaylor/pseuds/jjtaylor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not like Sam has a thing or anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pull Over

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to ataratah for beta.

It starts like any of their prank wars. Dean waits until Sam threatens to pee in the footwell before stopping, driving past rest stop after rest stop, finally pulling over in a clearing, and as it is, Sam barely makes it to a bush, his bladder so full he's going almost the second his dick is out of his pants.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says when he comes back to car.

"Why do you need to go all the time? You're like an old lady. Or a kid. Having to stop in the middle of the road," Dean says like he didn't deliberately skip all those stops.

"Don't make me wait, then," Sam says.

"Maybe I like watching you squirm," Dean says, and Sam's face is suddenly hot with wondering how far Dean would push him, how far he'd let it get, how close.

It's not like Sam has a thing or anything. He's never actually done anything about it, it's just that sometimes his brain mixes up the signals of having to go and wanting to come. And it's just that Sam kind of likes the feeling, not when it gets too far, when he thinks he might actually piss his pants, but just before that, when his bladder's hot and full and pressing, waiting. It's just that it makes his mouth dry sometimes, the feeling that runs through his body, high alert. He likes how it feels before he's desperate for it, when he's trying to settle in a way that doesn't put any pressure on his bladder, the way his dick starts to twitch, just a little. The moments when Dean notices and laughs, a low chuckle, teases him, asking how long he can hold it, if he can wait another hour, half an hour, fifteen torturous minutes. Or worse, when Dean presses his hand to his stomach, poking in just the way that makes Sam jump. Years with Dean in the car and Dean knows just how to push Sam, just how to make it something Sam should be embarrassed about, like it's not normal, like it's not a basic need.

He's jerked off once or twice, or, ok, more than once or twice, thinking about that feeling, the car, the bumps in the road, each one a risk of letting go, shifting in his seat, shifting his hand on his cock, squeezing tight at the memory of holding it in, thinking about having to go right then, right at that moment, begging Dean to let him, begging him to just pull over and let him - and Sam coming all over his hand, a different kind of hot, wet rush.

So it's distracting when Dean starts pushing Sam over it, twice in one trip, and then again the next day, waiting until Sam doesn't even bother asking anymore, is just about to climb over into the backseat and do it in an old water bottle when Dean finally pulls into a rest stop. Sam's running in, barely able to get the words out to ask for the key from the guy at the counter, who snickers at him like he's seen it a hundred times before. Sam's groaning as he lets go, splashing loud into the urinal. Dean's a few steps behind him, catching the door.

"Feel good, Sammy?" Dean's unzipping next to him, and Sam doesn't have time to hide the expression of release on his face. Dean, though, doesn't seem to notice, because he's too busy groaning his own way through his pee, and Sam isn't watching, he's totally not looking as Dean tips his head back just a little, says, "Feels so good when you've been holding it."

Sam washes his hands with cold, cold water, trying to wash away the image, but the idea that Dean was holding it, too… it's stupid, of course Dean had to go, it was four hours since their last stop, but while Sam was waiting, needing, and Dean was waiting too. Sam wonders how badly he'd needed to go, how much he was killing himself to make Sam break first.

They start mocking each other openly each time they stop or threaten not to stop, each time either of them even glances twice at a bathroom. Who has the smaller bladder, who's a giant pussy, who drinks too much. It's stupid, but then Sam's thinking about it all the time, as soon as he has even a twinge in his pelvis, as soon as he takes a sip of water, he's thinking about when the next stop is, whether or not Dean's going to make him wait too long this time, whether he'll beg Dean to to pull over, have to piss right there, the door open, barely on his feet, splattering in the dirty and trying to miss his shoes.

Dean looks at him when he drinks his coffee, when he takes a pull of his beer in the bar, like he's thinking, too, like he's daring Sam to drink more, to go ahead and fill up and see whether or not Dean will let him piss it all out later.

Dean makes him a bet the next day, when they've got nothing but driving and the nothingness Sam found in the local news to keep them entertained.

"I bet I can hold it longer than you," Dean says, and Sam flushes right up his neck, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. "50 bucks."

"You wish," Sam manages to say.

"Oh, I know," Dean says. "You're too chicken to prove me wrong?"

"No, I'll take the bet," Sam says, thinking that it's the worst idea he has ever had.

"Not in the car," Dean says, "I'm not having you go all over the front seat," Dean says, and then with the air of setting the ground rules. "At the motel, tonight. We'll both start out empty, split a six-pack, see who breaks first."

"Deal," Sam says.

Twenty minutes down the road he has to ask Dean to stop, not because he really has to go, but because he can't stop thinking about having to go. Dean just chuckles, and insists Sam's money is already his.

At the motel, Dean throws his keys on the table, puts the beer in the fridge. "Ok," Dean says, like they're about to start a card game. "I'll even give you last dibs on the bathroom, and then we start drinking," he says.

The first hour and the first beer is nothing, except the anticipation's making Sam antsy, making him feel things he knows aren't there, twinges, urgency that passes. He's thinking too much. A second beer helps him stop thinking, but he's also aware, as he opens the third, that beer always makes him need to pee more than it does Dean. This whole thing is a fucked up game that's going to end with weeks of mocking, after he runs for the bathroom first. If he doesn't trip on his way, at least he'll probably keep his pants dry, and at worst, well. There's a lot worse.

It's edging up his spine, making his fingers tingle, and he's gnawing his bottom lip without really thinking. Dean turns the TV off, throws out his empty beer can just as Sam's finishing his last sip.

"Even," Dean says. "How you doin', Granny?"

"Fine," Sam says, even though he's not. He can't help thinking, if they were just sitting around, he would have gone fifteen minutes ago.

Dean puts on his headphones and Sam tries to search for possible hauntings in the area, lore on the town's history but his heart isn't in it, and what's more, he's thirsty, but thinking about drinking water is only going to make it worse. He swallows hard; Dean's watching. Like he can read Sam's mind, Dean gets up, runs the tap, fills a glass. Takes a long drink. Sam coughs.

"Here, Sam, you thirsty?" Dean dumps the water, runs the tap, fills it up. Places the glass in front of Sam, sticks his fingers in the water, flicks it at Sam's face. Laughs and walks off back to the bed. Sam stares down the water like it's challenging him. Finally he gives in and takes a sip. Dean laughs.

"Why're you doing this anyway?" Sam asks.

"What, taking a bet I know you'll lose?"

"I mean, this, in particular," Sam says. "Is it some kinda macho thing? Am I a girl because I'm better hydrated?"

"Better hydrated, Sammy, seriously, you're a fucking hydrant no one can turn off."

"Well it's not like it's something I can help," Sam says, petulant, embarrassed. Shamed at how much he likes this game.

"And that's why I can make fun of you for it," Dean says. He adds, like an afterthought, "It's like I said before. I like watching you squirm." It can't possibly mean what Sam thinks it means. When Dean looks back, though, Sam deliberately shifts in his seat, crosses and uncrosses his legs. Dean's eyes widen, and he looks away.

That's the incentive Sam needs to hold out.

They spend the next half hour kind of staring at each other, Dean on the bed, Sam at the table. Sam gets up and Dean laughs in triumph but Sam sits on the bed and gives Dean a challenging look. Then of course he has to adjust the way he's sitting because it's not comfortable with his bladder this full and when he looks up, Dean's staring at him, a different expression on his face, wetting his lips.

"So we're gonna sit here all night?" Dean says, his voice scratchy.

"Until one of us breaks," Sam says. It's false bravado, because they both know it's going to be Sam.

When Dean sits forward, and presses his mouth over Sam's closed lips, Sam thinks its got to be an attempt to hurry things up. Sam can't help the sound he makes, low in his throat and it can't in any way be mistaken for protest. Dean changes the angle and Sam opens his mouth and they're kissing for real, Dean's tongue sliding against Sam's and the contact, the hot, wet, slippery wrongness of this goes straight to his groin, his dick giving a confused twitch, mixed signals about what it's supposed to be doing, getting hard or giving in to relieve the pressure.

"God, Sammy," Dean breaks off to murmur against his temple, "this is fucked up."

Sam's thoughts are a mess of _thank god_ and _oh shit_.

He bites Sam's neck in a way that doesn't seem all that regretful, and Sam bucks his hips, but when they meet Dean's, the pressure's there again, the ache where Dean's thigh is pressed against his bladder. Sam moans and Dean grabs the back of Sam's head, fingers tight in his hair, and they're kissing again, sloppy and urgent and deep, each cant of their hips pushing Sam a little closer to desperation.

"Want to touch you," Dean's saying, almost nonsensically because he is touching Sam, hands all over his arms and shoulders, cupping the back of his neck possessively. "Want to make you - "

Sam buries his face in Dean's chest, nose almost in his armpit and just shouts because it's so much and he's going to short out. He lifts his face, breathing against Dean's neck, looking at the mouth-shaped wet mark in Dean's t-shirt.

"I should - " Dean says, trying to break away but Sam grabs his arms, holds him down. "I need to go, Sam," Dean says, defiantly. Sam holds Dean's shoulders with one arm, lets the other hand loose to press against Dean's abdomen. Dean makes a choked sound, and he could push Sam off, but he doesn't.

"Bet you can't hold it," Sam says, and he's in no position to talk, he's hanging on to the fraying edges of his control, he really should have run for the toilet five minutes ago.

"Bet you can't," Dean says, the panic receding a little bit from his eyes, making room for something else, something Sam thinks might actually be desire. Dean tilts his thigh up just a little, a little twist, and Sam clenches everything, holding, holding. Dean grabs his shoulders, slides his hands up under the material of Sam's shirt.

"Jesus," Dean says. "I can taste it. Have to go so bad," he whispers in Sam's ear, and he thinks it's true from the way Dean's thighs and stomach are held tight but he knows, he knows he's so much farther gone than Dean, he's not even sure how it hasn't happened yet. They're not even kissing anymore, just breathing against each other's open mouths, Dean's hands skirting lower and lower down Sam's back, down into the edges of his jeans. "Think you can wait five more minutes?" Dean says, fingers fluttering at Sam's ribs. "Think you can do it?"

"God, Dean, I don't know," Sam says, squeezing his eyes shut, trying to press against anything that will help him hold it in, pressing against Dean's thigh, but the pressure makes it better for a second and then worse. Fingers tight in the sheets, heart thundering. "Really, I - I have to - " he pushes up but Dean holds him there. He's going to lose it any second, can feel it, so hot, so full, practically bursting out of him. "I really can't - you win, $50 bucks, I can't - " Dean still won't let go and so Sam says, his voice breaking, "Please, Dean, Jesus." Dean's arms are still tight and when Sam opens his eyes, his brother's staring at him, mouth red and open, pupils blown wide. "Please, I can't hold it."

"Open your pants," Dean says, and Sam shudders, squeezes his eyes shut, squeezes his legs together around Dean's thigh. "Open your pants," Dean says urgently, and Sam pushes himself up, sits back, so he's on his knees. He can probably make it to the bathroom if he runs now, but Dean grabs his arm, and Sam whines. He undoes the top button, undoes his zipper. Waits. He wants nothing more than to let go, and in a few more moments he's not going to have much of a choice.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean's fingers tighten in his arm.

"Take out your cock," Dean says. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, reaches for his cock, which takes the sensation of being in hand for permission to squirt, a tiny dribble, but it feels like the end for Sam.

"Please, Dean, I can't," he says, his legs tight, so tense, his hips rocking back and forth in tiny, jerky movements. Any second, he's gonna lose it, any second, and he can't because he'll piss right on his brother, Dean's right there under him and he wants to, he needs to, he's - "Dean," Sam pleads one desperate time.

"Do it," Dean says. Sam hiccups a breathe and he's letting go, he's squirting hot, wet liquid between them, hips canting up, splashing down onto his brother's stomach, soaking into his shirt, his jeans, running down into the bed. He can't tear his eyes off the sight, the droplets spraying everywhere. He can't feel anything but release, the desperate need not to hold on anymore. Dean groaning, hiding his face in his elbow. The room suddenly reeks, Sam's embarrassment palpable.

"Fucking Christ," Dean murmurs and Sam can't stop if he tries and he doesn't want to, doesn't stop until he's empty, a few last squirts and then he's trembling, sitting back on his knees, trying to sit back away from Dean.

He tucks his cock away, does up his zipper with shaky hands, says, shame overwhelming him, "I'm sorry, Jesus, Dean, I'm sorry."

"Don't," Dean bites out, harsh and grabs for him. Sam overbalances and falls on him, and his shirt's warm and wet and Dean drags him up and kisses Sam hard, burying the needy sounds he's making in Sam's mouth. Dean thrusts up, his hand on Sam's back, whines low in his throat. "Want to - " Dean's buries his face in Sam's shoulder again, and Sam's taking deep, swallowing breathes. Sam's stroking his hand up and down Dean's arm and it's damp and catches at the hairs there.

"Dean, we should - " Sam says, and Dean looks up at him, eyes hooded.

"We should what, Sam?" Dean says, and he shoves Sam away, gets up and goes into the bathroom, slamming the door.

The bed's ruined, and Sam strips off his shirt and jeans, pulls back the sheets. The mattress is wet. Dean's not coming out of the bathroom, and the shower's not running, and Sam's not going to knock, so he just grabs an old shirt, tries to dry himself off, grabs a blanket from the other clean bed and curls himself into the chair. His neck's going to hurt in the morning, but he doesn't care, just wills himself to sleep.

They don't talk about it the next morning. They don't talk about much. When Sam wakes, Dean's hair's wet and the bathroom's steamy. Dean shoves their piss-soaked, smelly clothes into a trash bag, gives Sam a wide berth. In the bathroom, he stands at the toilet, and he's so overcome with the gut-wrenching shame of what happened last night that he almost can't make himself go. He takes a shower, which he does mindlessly, and when he gets out, Dean's waiting in the car. They get breakfast on the road. Sam's not even sure where they're going, if Dean's found a case or something else is driving him in a particular direction.

An hour after breakfast, Sam has to pee. He doesn't say anything for another half an hour, and then it's getting to be a concern. Fifteen minutes later and he has to say something.  
"Dean," he says, and Dean just nods, and five minutes later, they're pulling off an exit and into a McDonald's. Sam goes in, and Dean doesn't follow. It's not until Sam's drying his hands on his jeans and walking out that Dean goes in. So that's new, and totally uncomfortable.

It turns out Dean's found a case, either a barghest, or just a coyote, and they do their best County Office Coroners, check the dead body for evidence of ectoplasm, pick up some research. It's routine and Sam's numbed by it, sitting in the motel room surrounded by books. When Sam looks up, rubs his eyes, Dean's gone and Sam can't remember whether he said he was going out or what. Sam's tired, his brain fuzzy, and he thinks if Dean's not here he may lay down for an hour, research later when his eyes aren't burning. First, though, he's going to take a piss. He flicks on the light of the bathroom and startles; Dean's just standing there in the middle of the bathroom, eyes blinking as he adjust to the light.

"Get out, man, I need to go," Sam says.

Dean doesn't move. "Dean," Sam says, and then Dean's pushing Sam against the bathroom door, forearm broad against his chest.

"I can't stop thinking about it," Dean says, and he adjusts his weight so he's pinning Sam there, not that Sam can't move him but he needs to figure out what this is about, so he lets Dean hold him there.

"We can just," Sam says, breathless, trying to look anywhere but at Dean, "forget it happened."

"Did it turn you on?" Dean asks like Sam hasn't spoken at all. "Did it?"

Sam nods his head, fast, squeezes his eyes shut, ready for the punch. It doesn't come.

"Made me hot, Sam, made me so goddamn horny, my kid brother pissing on me made me ache for it," and Sam can't keep his eyes closed. He looks at Dean, whose cheeks are flushed with embarrassment, eyes wild. He pushes hard against Sam's chest, leans forward so they're close enough to kiss. "Just thinking of you holding it, you needing it so bad, your face when -" He lets his arm fall away and Sam grabs for him, brings them flush against each other. Dean makes a cut-off noise, his chest rising and falling fast. He pushes back, so he's backing Sam back up against the wall with more will than physical power, and then Dean's hands are on Sam's hips, and then suddenly, one hand's on his ass, palm spread wide, and the other's one's cupping his cock.

"You need to go now, Sam?" Dean asks, breath hot on Sam's face.

Sam can't even help it; he moans. Dean presses the heel of his hand into Sam's bladder and Sam jerks forward, and then Dean's kissing him, teeth scraping over his bottom lip. Sam's growing harder under Dean's touch, trying not to buck forward into Dean's hand. Dean bites Sam's neck, just hard enough and Sam tilts his head back, hitting it against the back of the door, opening up his neck for Dean, who licks and bites, rocking his hand against Sam's cock until Sam's gasping at each touch.

"Looks like you got a problem there," Dean says, tracing his fingers up and down the length, teasing. Sam's got his hands back against the door because he's not sure what to do with them. He looks up at Dean, still flushed, eyes wide. "You want me to take care of it?" He pops the button of Sam's jeans, starts the zipper, just the slightest of tugs. Not close enough. Sam needs Dean's hand - Jesus, this is - he wants -

"Dean?" Sam's asking permission to ask for this.

"You know what a bitch it is to try to piss with a hard-on," Dean says. "And if you really need to go," he says.

"Please," Sam says, his hands grabbing for Dean's shoulders. Dean tugs his zipper all the way down, cool fingers on his hips as he pushes Sam's pants down, then his boxers. They fall around his ankles and then Dean's hand is on him, stroking fast and deliberate.

"Jesus," Dean breathes out, as Sam arches into his hand. Dean takes his other hand and fits it over Sam's hip, then moves across his abdomen, pressing suddenly against his bladder. Sam cries out, unsure whether to pull away from the pressure or push into Dean's hand.

"Christ, Dean, this - " Sam says, and then Dean pulls his hand away, spits in it twice, and wraps it back around Sam's cock. "Oh god," Sam breathes out, eyes falling shut, head back, his whole body going tense with want, his stomach sick with the wrongness, with how badly he wants it, his bladder full, his cock so hard, pushing up over and over into Dean's hand, which Dean twists his hand in a way that makes Sam dizzy.

Dean's breathing faster, leaning forward, kissing Sam again, tongue pushing against Sam's, sliding, demanding, Dean so close the head of Sam's cock keeps brushing Dean's t-shirt, making Sam hiss with the sensation. Dean presses hard on his bladder.

"Dean," Sam shouts and then he's coming, spurting over Dean's hand and onto his t-shirt, falling back against the door, taking deep gulps of breath. He's barely coming down from it when he remembers he has to pee, and badly. It's an agonizing pressure, and he needs to give in now. He opens his eyes. Dean hasn't forgotten. Sam's come is a wet smear across his shirt where he's wiped his hand.

"I - " Sam says, breathing in through his nose. "I have to - " Dean's standing in front of the toilet, blocking his way. Dean just stands there. "Please, Dean, don't make me do it right here on the floor. I can't - " He's hot and sick over the idea.

"Not on the floor," Dean says. Sam's breath is knocked from him and he squeezes his knees together as Dean kneels down. "Come on, Sammy, hit me right in the chest." Dean's trying to be full of swagger, but his voice breaks with need. Sam's not sure if he - if he can - "Sammy, please," Dean says, and that's enough, Sam takes a fumbling step forward, his pants still around his ankles, holds his dick and lets go, the hot stream so much like coming that he can barely keep his eyes open with the pleasure of it, but he needs to see Dean's face. Dean looks shocked and impossibly turned on, leaning back so Sam's going in the middle of his chest, soaking his shirt, running off down his jeans, onto the floor.

"Dean," Sam breathes out, terrified, and then Dean's opening up his pants, shoving them down, his hand on his cock, stroking fast and hard. Sam's frozen watching him, Dean's head thrown back, the tendons in his neck stretched, the bitten off sounds he's making, and then Dean's coming, the sound of it like it's tearing out of him. He breathes out a long shaky breath, wipes his hand on his shirt, near the white smear of Sam's come, stays there on his knees, eyes closed.

"Dean?" Sam says, desperate not to say the wrong thing.

"This is fucked up," Dean says, but he sounds resigned. His eyes are still closed.

Then Sam's stepping out of his pants, hauling Dean up with a heft under his arms. "Hey," Sam says, "Hey," and then he's pushing his chest against Dean's, wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

"I'm all gross," Dean says, trying to push away.

"Yeah, and half of it's my piss and my come," Sam says, and Dean's eyes open wide, like he's scared Sam's accusing him of something. "Dean, listen," Sam says, "It's ok."

"What part of this is fucking ok?" Dean asks.

"Ok," Sam concedes. "Ok, it's fucked up. But we're both fucked up."

Dean seems to lose some of the power in his legs then and he half-slumps against Sam. "I'm sorry," Dean breathes into Sam's neck. And then, as though this never happened, he pushes Sam away. "So, I'm gonna take a shower," and he strips off the rest of his clothes, turns his back to Sam, and pulls the curtain closed as he steps into the shower, the sound of the water so banal it's a shock to Sam's senses.

They kill the barghest that night, working in tandem like they're so good at, and Dean just wants to get back in the car and drive away, and Sam's not gonna argue. He cleans off the blood and gore with a rag that he thinks used to be a towel, and the adrenaline rush fading fast, falls asleep in the front seat.

When he wakes up, it's just an hour past dawn, the morning light bright and yellow against the windshield. They're pulled over and Dean's leaning against the side of the hood, his arms crossed. When Sam opens his door, stretches, stumbles out, he can see his breath in the cold air. He tugs his jacket closer, zips it up, shoves his hands in his pockets, and goes to stand beside Dean.

"What's up?" Sam asks. He scans where Dean's looking, but there's nothing out there, just scrub grass and birds flitting around, chasing bugs and the warmth of the day.

Dean doesn't say anything, but Sam's close enough that when Dean shifts his weight from one foot to the other, their shoulders bump and Dean flinches away.

"Dean, what the fuck?"

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean asks, bending down to scoop up a handful of gravel, picking out rocks big enough to toss, putting his shoulder into it like he's throwing a knife. "I don't even know where we're going. I wanted to get a motel, not so we could sleep, but so I could - " Dean breaks off, tosses the whole handful of rocks, which clatter across the ground.

Sam's mouth is suddenly dry. He takes his hands out of his pocket, rubs them together, reaches for Dean, who spins like he's going to punch him. "Don't, Sam," Dean says. "Look, I'm sorry, all right, let's just get to the next town, find another case, go back to normal."

"Normal?" Sam laughs out. "When have we ever been normal?"

"This - this thing I did to you, this isn't ok," Dean says.

"Dean, shut up," Sam says, and then he's got Dean's shoulders under his hand, Dean pressed against the car, Dean's mouth hot and wet under his. Dean groans, and Sam grabs his shoulders tight, kisses him until he can't breathe. Dean goes tight and tense underneath him but he's kissing back, fierce and desperate, and then he shoves Sam away, and Sam takes a few stumbling steps back.

"Don't do this," Dean says, and he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I said I was sorry," he says.

Sam tries to reach out for Dean's arm but Dean smacks him away, and then they're scuffling, hands locked on each other's arms, Sam trying to throw Dean against the car, Dean trying to shake Sam off, and then Dean takes Sam's legs out from under him and he's falling, and Dean's climbing on top of him, knees tight on either side of Sam's chest, hands in his collar, their breath steaming in the cold air, birds tweeting around them incongruous and distracting. Sam has no idea whether Dean is going to punch him or kiss him.

"I'm a fucking pervert, all right?" Dean breathes close to him. "I can own that. But I ain't turning you into one." With that, he shoves Sam hard against the ground, and climbs into the car, starting it up. Sam scrambles to his feet because he's not sure Dean won't drive off without him.

They drive until mid-afternoon. Dean stops every hour and a half, as though the idea of Sam even needing to go to the bathroom is just too much for him to handle. One of the times, Sam tells Dean he doesn't need to go and Dean slams the steering wheel so hard Sam thinks he's bruised his hand. Sam goes in anyway.

"Dean - " Sam says, as the sun's starting to go down, the light watery and orange and it reminds Sam of this morning, his face flushing, thinking about it, the way Dean felt pressed up against the car, the way Dean said he was a pervert. "Are we gonna talk about this?" Sam's voice is a lot quieter than he expects. Dean takes his sunglasses off, throws them on the dashboard.

"Nothing to talk about, Sam," Dean says.

Sam takes a risk and does something he's never, ever thought about letting himself do. He tucks his knee under his leg, leans forward and touches Dean's face, his fingers falling on Dean's jaw, stubble rough and skin warm. Dean flinches away like he's been burned.

"What the fuck, Sam?" Dean asks, jerking the wheel.

"I'm a pervert, too, Dean," Sam says. He licks his finger, traces the wet pad down Dean's jaw. Dean makes a strangled sound. Sam does it again, licks his finger, traces it down Dean's throat this time. "Do you have any idea how many times I've wanted to do this?"

"Don't, Sam."

"Don't what, Dean, don't say it?" Sam asks. "I think the cat's out of the bag. I want to fuck my brother."

Dean makes another sound, low and dangerous. Sam lays his hand over Dean's on the steering wheel, fingers curling over Dean's.

"Is it any worse that I like when you make me hold it, than you like when I - "

"Stop it," Dean yells.

"This is not a new thing for me, Dean," Sam says.

"Don't say that, Jesus, look, I messed a lot of things up, ok? You never should have known."

"So it's not new for you, either?" Sam says. Dean jams the wheel so hard Sam's not even sure what's happening until they're skidding over to the side of the road, dust kicking up around them. There's been two cars in the past hour coming the other direction, but Sam still looks behind them to see if anyone's swerving to avoid their sudden stop. The road stretches empty behind them, the sunset making the sky pink and purple. Sam looks up and Dean's gripping his hands tight on his thighs.

"Are you telling me," Dean says, like each word's a weight almost too heavy for him to carry, "That you've thought about this? Before I - "

"Yeah," Sam breathes out.

"I'm sorry," Dean says immediately.

"Jesus, Dean, what the fuck is your problem. You're sorry? Are you even listening to me?"

"I'm sorry I raised you wrong, Sammy," Dean says, and closes his eyes.

"Dean, you're such a fucking - " But then Dean's reaching for Sam, hands tight on his arms, bringing Sam's mouth to his. Sam groans with it, the shock, the heat, Dean's stubble against his chin, Dean's hands letting go of his arms and grabbing Sam by the neck, holding him possessively tight, tongue pushing hot and demanding into Sam's mouth, and Sam can't get the right angle of his body, slewing sideways in the passenger seat. He wants to be on top of Dean, wants Dean on top of him, wants them to be touching more than they are. Dean's making sounds against Sam's mouth that Sam never thought he'd hear when he wasn't listening to Dean jerk off. Dean drags his teeth down Sam's jaw, like he doesn't even know what he's doing, and Sam moves, trying to get his hands anywhere he can hold on. He ends up with a hand in Dean's hair, thumb tracing across Dean's jaw. Dean pulls back, looks at him, wide-eyed, scared.

"What am I supposed to do with this, Sammy?" Dean asks, turning to capture Sam's hand, nip at his palm, lick his thumb and then suck it into his mouth. Sam moans, his head falling back, Dean working his tongue back and forth under the pad of Sam's thumb, scraping it with his teeth. He tugs at Sam's wrist and then he's swallowing two fingers, all the way in, moaning around them and there's only one thing that makes Sam think of, the way Dean's swallowing, breathing out through his nose.

"Oh, god, Dean, please," Sam says, and he opens his eyes and Dean's staring at him, eyes wide and focused, mouth red, spit trailing down the corner as Dean sucks on Sam's fingers like there's nothing else he wants more, and Christ, Sam's going to lose it right here, he's going to fucking come in his pants if Dean keeps swallowing and sucking, moaning, tongue pressing flat up under them. Dean pulls back, spit on his chin. Sam's hand drops, heavy as a stone.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Dean asks desperately.

"You're supposed to take me to a motel," Sam says without thinking, and Dean's mouth drops open and a second later, he's starting the car, screeching off into the road, Sam sitting back in the passenger seat, dazed, incredibly turned on, panicked. He closes his eyes and Dean drives.

Dean pulls off onto an exit just a few miles down. A place called the El Dorado. Sam feels hysterical. Dean checks them in, they grab their duffels, weapons, it's like any other motel stay except that they're barely inside the door when Dean's grabbing Sam's duffel away from him, tossing it onto the floor, grabbing Sam by the shoulders and kissing him so hard they stumble, hit the wall.

"You do what I say, ok?" Dean whispers harsh into Sam's ear. "You understand me, Sammy?"

Sam nods. There's no way he'll protest. Dean shoves Sam against the wall, yanks down his jacket. Sam shakes his hands free, lets it fall to the floor. Dean hisses into his ear, "Need a piss, Sammy? You'd better go now because I'm not gonna let you later." Sam moans into Dean's neck, and Dean pushes him toward the bathroom.

Sam's not even sure he's going to be able to go, he's half-hard and shaky but there's an imperative in Dean's voice that Sam's not going to ignore. He hears Dean clear his throat when Sam flushes, and Sam runs the water, washing his hands.

Dean pushes his way in past Sam, hand briefly, tellingly, on Sam's hip before Dean goes in. It's barely a minute but Sam's pacing, nervous, unsure what to do with his hands.

"Calm down, Sam," Dean says, normal Dean, all business. "We don't have to do this. I'm not kidding around, we can just pretend - "

"Dean," Sam says, and then Dean's hands are on him, still wet from the sink, tugging at the material of his shirt, his mouth on Sam's throat. Dean shoves them toward the bed, Sam dizzy with want and the fear that any second Dean might turn back, and Sam ends up sitting hard, scooting back, kicking off his shoes. Dean's pulling his shirt off, his t-shirt over his head, Dean fixing Sam with a look.

"Take your shirt off," Dean says. His voice is a little shaky, but Sam still does what he says. Dean needs to run the show and as long as that's going to convince Dean that Sam wants this too, he's happy to go along. Sam slides out of his long-sleeved shirt, pulls his t-shirt over his head, and Dean's staring at him. It makes Sam shy away a little, tucking his shoulders in.

"You bashful already?" Dean says, kneeling on the bed, hand on Sam's chest so he's pushing him backwards onto the bed, Dean's knees around his thigh, the button of Dean's jeans cold against Sam's stomach as Dean leans up, tucks his arms up under Sam's on either side of his chest. "I don't think that's the way to get me to give you what you want," Dean says, his mouth hovering over Sam's. Sam arches up and Dean pulls back.

"Dean, please," Sam says, and Dean's sitting back, bringing his mouth over Sam's collarbone, biting down on the joint of his neck, lips and teeth and tongue down Sam's chest, teasing. Sam's hips are already restless, stirring, wanting pressure, friction, Dean closer, but Dean's not in any rush, siding his hands up Sam's arms, fingers soft down over his ribs, light strokes across his stomach. Dean flicks his tongue across Sam's right nipple, fingers pinching his left and Sam arches up, head thrown back.

"You like that, Sam, huh?" Dean says, chin on Sam's chest, looking up. It doesn't sound like he's goading him; he actually looks surprised, interested, like he's learned something he never expected to learn. "What about this?" he says, and sucks on Sam's neck just under his jaw. It's a sweet spot that makes Sam bow with tension, sending shivers through him, and Dean feels it, Dean lingers there, licks the spot, traces his tongue over to Sam's ear, Dean's breathing so loud, his mouth hot, and Sam turns his face and Dean understands. They kiss, slower this time, Dean tilting his head to change the angle, pull him deeper, his hands pushing the pillow away so he can dig both his hands in Sam's hair, cradle his head, kiss him so Sam's whimpering, chasing Dean's mouth, hands spread across Dean's back, Dean's skin under his fingers.

"Jesus, Sammy," Dean says, breaking away, his mouth red, his chest flushed. He bends down and sucks on Sam's neck again, covering every spot in a zig-zag line, tongue pressing over Sam's Adam's apple, down the hollow of his throat. "Wanna suck you, Sammy," Dean says, mouth against Sam's chest, tonguing his nipples, dragging his teeth over Sam's solar plexus. Sam bucks up, tosses his head to the side, closes his eyes shut. He wants it too, wants it so much he can't even speak, just whines. "You want that? You want me to suck you? You wanna come in my mouth?"

"Dean," Sam groans out.

"Tell me you want that," Dean says, sounding a little desperate. Sam forces himself to open his eyes, and he has to close them again for a second because Dean's licking his lips.

"God, Dean, please," Sam moans. Dean's fingers stutter at Sam's hips, and then Dean opens Sam's jeans, drags down the zipper so slowly that Sam's moving restlessly under him.

"Come on," Dean says, pulling Sam's jeans down, getting Sam to lift his hips. Dean doesn't hesitate, drags his boxers down, too, and Sam's cock springs free, hot and heavy and full against his stomach. "Christ," Dean says, yanking Sam's pants down his legs, out of the tangle of his feet. He scrubs his hand over his face for a minute.

"Dean?" Sam asks. "You ok?"

"Fuck no, I'm not ok," Dean says, still not looking.

"We can - "

"You shut up, Sammy," Dean says, and he's suddenly looming over Sam, Dean's jeans rough against his cock, his stomach, Dean's hands on Sam's arms, fingers too tight. "You shut up and you let me make you come, ok?" Dean says. "You let me suck you off, you come all over me, ok, you let me do this," Dean says, and it's a command and it's also a plea.

"Yeah," Sam says, dizzy, breathless, terrified, and then Dean's hand is on the base of his cock and he's licking the head, teasing, and then he's swallowing Sam down, hot and wet, amazing and wrong, Dean sucking as he pulls back, tongue everywhere, and Sam's back is arched, his hips aching to thrust into Dean's mouth, and Dean's making these sounds in his throat, Sam can fucking feel them, each time Dean sucks further down, lips stretched around him. Sam twists his hands in the sheets, tugging so tight he thinks he might rip them, knees locked, thighs trembling. He watches Dean, lost, broken open by it, by the way Dean's hands are on his hips now, fingers brushing gentle touches over his hip bones, deep into Dean's throat, places he's not supposed to be, deep as Dean swallows back a gag, keeps going, and Sam has to shut his eyes, except that makes everything more intense, sharper, the sound of Dean's exhales through his nose, the thready sound of Sam's own heartbeat. And suddenly he's dangerously close and he doesn't want it yet, doesn't want this to end, but he can't help it, can't hold on.

"Dean," Sam gasps, "Dean," and he can't manage more. Dean knows exactly what's going on, groans around his cock, slides his fingers from Sam's hips to cup his balls, press at the spot just behind them, and Sam lets go of the moans he's been holding back, so loud he feels them in his chest, deep, gasping moans as Dean sucks hard, sloppy, wet, his tongue moving fast, Sam thrusting up into his throat, unable to stop. Dean's fingers press between the cleft of his ass, a single finger pushing just inside his hole and Sam has a second to want to thrust back down against it, to want more, and then he's coming, shouting himself hoarse, stomach tight as he loses it, and he can feel Dean swallowing, Jesus, and some of the come still dripping down over Sam's softening cock, down Dean's chin.

"Christ, Sammy," Dean says, and he lays his head for a minute on Sam's thighs, wiping his hand against his mouth,, breathing hot and heavy, fast.

Sam's dying, spinning, swirling, shaking with how good it was, how good getting sucked off by his brother was, his body limp, exhausted and shot with energy at the same time, Dean's hot breath tickling his thighs. Dean's moving and Sam thinks he's getting up, but then Sam realizes what's happening. Dean's opening his pants, shoving them and his boxers down, reaching for his cock.

"Dean," Sam says, and Dean presses his forehead to Sam's thigh, like he can't even look up at him.

"Please, just need to - " Dean says, and Sam can feel his arm brushing against his legs, can feel his strokes.

Sam grabs Dean, pulls him up on top of him,drags Dean's mouth to his and Dean tries to pull away, then gives in, and Sam can taste himself in Dean's mouth. Dean's making broken, needy sounds, his hands on Sam's chest, his hips thrusting.. Sam pulls them flush and Dean's cock is hot against his stomach. Dean thrusts long and slow against him, his eyes squeezed shut, tries to pull back again.

"Dean, I want you to," Sam says, so quietly, and Dean lowers his head, bites down hard on Sam's neck, snaps his hips against Sam's, his cock jerking against Sam's stomach. "I want you to," Sam says again, his hand on Dean's back, pressing lower, skating down his spine, over his tailbone, cupping his ass. Dean buries his face in Sam's neck, breathes out an unsteady moan. "Please," Sam says, and then Dean's rocking his hips, needy, uncertain, and Sam rocks up to meet him, fingers squeezing in Dean's cheeks, urging him forward.

"God, Sammy," Dean says, unsteady, almost babble as he moves against Sam, his cock sliding rough and hot against Sam's stomach, "God, is this, I shouldn't, I can't - I want - Sam, I want -"

"Yeah," Sam says, "yeah, Dean," and Dean lifts his head, looks up at him.

"Yeah?" Dean says, and then he's coming, pain and pleasure mixed on his face, his come smearing across their stomachs where Dean's still rocking against him. All the strength goes out of Dean and he collapes on Sam, then tenses and tries to push off.

Sam's hand on Dean's back is enough to hold him, and after a few minutes, Dean slowly relaxes, leaning off the bed just enough to grab a shirt, Sam doesn't even care whose, and clean them up.

Sam wakes up and they're back to back, Dean's skin hot against his. They've shared a bed before, lots of times, but never like this. Sam shifts, pulling away from Dean, and he realizes, of course, he has to pee. He pulls the sheets back, is about to swing his legs over when Dean turns, grabs him. "Don't you remember what I said?" Dean says, hooking a leg over Sam's hip. Sam doesn't try to push him off. He remembers.

"Dean, you can't do this every time I need to - " Sam says, but Dean's pressing the heel of his hand against Sam's abdomen.

Sam clenches his teeth. Dean pushes harder.

"Need something?"

"Dean, if you keep doing that, I'm gonna - "

Dean pulls his hand away. "No you're not," he says. "You're gonna hold it while I fuck you."

If there is ever a sentence that's going to short-circuit Sam's brain, that was it. His morning wood's turned into a serious hard-on, and if he was worried that Dean was going to have a melt-down over what happened the night before, he is well and truly distracted from it.

Sam realizes belatedly that this might actually _be_ Dean having a meltdown. He can't say he minds.

When Dean kisses him, his mouth tastes sour from sleep but it's gone almost as soon as their tongues slide together, lost against the taste of his brother, of the kiss. Sam's got Dean's biceps under his hands, the muscles flexing as Dean holds himself up. And then Dean's shifting, stroking his hand down Sam's chest, bringing their hips together. Sam gasps and Dean smiles against Sam's mouth.

"Yeah," Dean says, taking his cock in his hand and tugging up, once. Sam makes a strangled noise, and then Dean leans down, presses his mouth to the place just above Sam's pubes, presses down with his tongue. It's not as much pressure as the idea of pressure, and Sam moans, twisting away.

"Already that bad, huh?" Dean says. "So I guess I shouldn't take my time?" He does just that, though, sliding his hands down over Sam's legs, down the crease of his thighs, just brushing his balls with his knuckles, fingers headed for his hole. And, yeah, Sam's starting to feel uncomfortable, like he's full and needs to be less full sooner rather than later, but his dick's more interested in what Dean's doing and his brain's more interested in the way Dean keeps promising to make him wait.

Dean twists himself away, and reaches to the floor, where he pulls out a bottle of lube.

"Dean, where did - " Sam says, and then his mind goes blank as Dean opens the cap, pours some of it over his fingers, rubs them together. Dean had that in his bag. Dean uses that to - and then Sam's not thinking about anything except Dean's fingers, rubbing his hole with the slick lube, just a little cold, and Sam hisses with the sensation of Dean sliding a finger in. Dean has a look of concentration on his face that Sam's not used to seeing when Dean's not hunting. Sam bends his knees a little and Dean makes a strangled noise, the first sign that he has any concentration to lose. It's two fingers quick after that, and not enough, then Dean's rolling a condom on, slicking himself up, and Sam's watching, breathless. Dean leans forward, licks Sam's hip, dances his fingers across his belly, presses on Sam's bladder, just a little. Sam should really be paying more attention because his bladder spasms at Dean's touch. He's pushing it to its limit.

"Jesus, Dean," Sam says, "Come on," and then Dean's pushing in, slow, and it's sharp and too much, and they're breathing together and then Dean moves and it's heat under his scalp, up his spine, so good because this is Dean and he's not supposed to have this, he's not supposed to have Dean grunting, hot breath on his chest, spreading Sam's legs wider apart, whispering, "You like this, Sammy?" in a way that's both dirty talk and reassurance. And Sam can't help but move down against Dean, he's concentrating hard and Sam wants him to break just a little, too, break like Sam's breaking underneath him. Sam moves and arches up, his cock hot and hard against Dean's belly and then the angle changes and Sam's - that's -

"Dean," Sam says, because it's like a jolt straight to his bladder and he thinks it might just squirt right out. He grips Dean's arms tight, grits his teeth. "Dean - "

"Oh, Sam," Dean breathes out, "God, your face, it's - " and then he's grabbing Sam's cock, tugging up hard and twisting as he slams in, over and over and Sam's not sure what's gonna happen first, if he's gonna come or piss or what, but it's happening now, it's happening in Dean's hand as Dean squeezes up and Sam arches, bowing up, and Sam's coming, Sam whimpering and shouting, mouth open against Dean's shoulder. Dean strokes him through it, his mouth set in a line of concentration like fucking Sam is something he is absolutely not going to mess up.

Sam falls back exhausted, but Dean's strokes are harder, deeper, faster inside him and each time their hips meet, it's a jolt through his bladder. It's worse now that he's come, so over sensitized, and he doesn't think he - he's not going to -

"Dean, I'm - " Sam says, and he grips Dean's shoulders tight.

"Yeah, Sammy, I know," Dean says. "You need it, don't you. Already come and you still need - " Dean bites off a groan, tries to slow himself down. "Who says I'm gonna let you?"

"Please," Sam says, choked, desperate. He just needs - he just - each of Dean's strokes is bringing him too close. He's not even sure how his body's going to stop if Dean tells him to. His cock's slipping in his own come across Dean's stomach, and the warm wetness, it's -

Dean's fingers find the too sensitive tip of his cock, slide over the slit. Dean then squeezes the base. "Not until I tell you," Dean says, and Sam's whole body jerks.

"Please, Dean, I can't - "

"Just a minute more, Sammy," Dean says, and Sam hangs on to the idea that relief's coming soon, hangs on, holding it back with his teeth, with everything, every jolt of Dean's cock inside him -

"Please," Sam begs.

"Ok," Dean says, close to his ear, and Sam lets go, spraying across Dean's hand, all over himself.

"Christ, Sammy, I've never seen anything so - " And then Dean's hips are stuttering, shallow, uneven, faster and Dean's letting his head drop forward against Sam's chest as he shouts, coming so hard Sam can feel it all through his body.

"God, that's dirty," Dean says, pulling out, chest still heaving.

"Yeah, well, it's piss," Sam says.

"I didn't mean literally," Dean says, falling back on the bed. "But now that you mention it, you're doing the laundry."


End file.
